Dido and Pa

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Gracious me. How clever,’ said Sophie – who did think it sounded a most ingenious plan, really quite out of the common. ‘And where will this happen? One procession, you say, comes in from Greenwich, one goes out from London – where will they meet?’

  She glanced at a large map of London and its environs which the Margrave had spread out on a gold-and-onyx table.

  ‘Why, where should they meet but in the middle of the tunnel – the reason, the object of the whole affair? Where could they possibly meet but under the River Thames?’

  Sophie at once perceived several objections to this plan, but she judged it best to be tactful, and only said, with caution, ‘Will the tunnel be illuminated?’

  ‘Who should know that better than yourself, my dear duke?’ the Margrave replied in slight surprise. ‘But yes, it will be lit by gas flares. The scene will be brilliant – magnificent!’

  ‘And the tunnel is wide enough to contain two processions, passing in opposite directions?’

  ‘So I am informed. There will be sufficient width.’

  ‘For spectators also?’

  ‘Spectators? Now there, my dear duke, you ask the impossible! The spectators must content themselves with assembling outside, at each end of the tunnel.’

  To Sophie it seemed more than a little odd that the most significant moment of the whole occasion should take place underground, in a tunnel, where no one could see what was happening, except the people who were marching, or riding. Yet – the tunnel was the object of the festivities – and the crowds on each side of the river would have the excitement of seeing one procession march into the cavity and then, two minutes later, a different one march out. With appropriate music, as the Margrave said.

  ‘It really is clever,’ she said. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘For the two processions to reach the Thames from their starting points, say half an hour. To pass through the tunnel – ten minutes. And then another half hour to reach their final destination.’

  ‘And in which procession will the king be?’

  ‘Aha! My dear duke – as before – you dive straight to the heart of the matter.’

  The Margrave seemed more and more delighted with Sophie; he beamed at her enthusiastically, though she noticed that he had become even paler, and now carried a bright red spot on either cheekbone. His hands shook. His brow was bedewed with beads of perspiration. In spite of his vivacity, Sophie thought, he looked like a seriously ill man.

  ‘Which procession?’ he repeated. ‘Which indeed? Shall I leave you to guess – like the public!’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Sophie cheerfully, ‘you have me entirely puzzled and all agog. And I assume that is your intention.’

  The Margrave turned, and directed his wide smile (could those teeth be real? wondered Sophie) like a lighthouse beam at Mr Bredalbane, who, all this time, had been seated nervously at the spinet, sometimes lifting his hands as if about to play a few notes, but never daring to do so.

  ‘Can you believe it, my dear Chapelmaster? What luck for me that the duke, here, is a young man of parts, of rare discernment. He is a jewel. He can appreciate our scheme. And I am not surprised that he should be so sympathetic – have you taken note of his voice, Chapelmaster? It is so musical, so fine-toned – I cannot recall when I was last charmed by such a voice!

  This remark caused Sophie more than a little alarm. She had been forgetting, in her interest, to pitch her voice as deep as Simon’s. She said, quickly and gruffly, ‘I conclude that the king’s whereabouts in the procession will be kept a secret until the last moment? Is that it? Pray, your excellency, may I hear a little of the music that you offer to accompany this scheme?’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ the Margrave purred. ‘Bredalbane – play the duke your themes; let him have some idea of the grandeur of our concept.’

  ‘Y-yes, your excel-cellency, c-certainly, your excellency. You s-see, your griddle-grace, it will be – it will be after this fashion –’ stammered the musician. He gave Sophie a quick, slanting look, then began rapidly fingering the keys. ‘This will be the theme for the Household Regiments – and this for the city dignitaries; this for the yeomen –’ all the while he was rattling out different tunes, some stately, some rousing, some light-hearted, some grand – ‘then, for his majesty, this –’ he played a noble, simple, haunting air – ‘then there will be country dances for the farmers, milk-maids, and shepherds coming in to town –’ and he changed to a series of such lively airs that it was all Sophie could do to stop her feet from tapping on the marble floor.

  ‘Why, they are beautiful!’ she exclaimed, much impressed. ‘They are truly beautiful.’

  Bredalbane glanced at her again, a rapid, needle-like look.

  ‘And th-then, you s-see, the themes all mix and combine as the two processions begin to pass one another –’ He gave a demonstration of this, combining several themes together.

  ‘Really,’ said Sophie, ‘it is the greatest pity that Mr Bredalbane’s music could not have been used at his majesty’s coronation; it is by far superior to what was played on that occasion.’

  ‘My dear duke – I could embrace you!’ said the Margrave. ‘Such judgement! Such perception!’

  Sophie had to control an impulse to back away in case he meant his words literally; but luckily he did not. She noticed with interest that Bredalbane’s music seemed to have had as beneficial an effect on the Margrave as if he had swallowed brandy or sniffed a bottle of smelling-salts; his pallor had been replaced by a warm flush, his eyes were brighter, the beads of sweat had dried off his brow.

  ‘So you approve our scheme, my dear duke?’

  ‘Oh, it is not for me to approve,’ said Sophie. ‘His majesty has already done so. For myself I think it is tremendous – superb. All I need now is to take a memorandum of times and places where the parties will need to assemble and in which order. I will transmit these to the king for his final assent.’

  She pulled out a small ivory writing tablet and began taking notes. ‘There! I believe I have it all recorded now – the household cavalry, the guards, knights, barons, aldermen – and the farmers, milkmaids, shepherds, yeomen – his majesty will have cause for infinite gratitude to you, your excellency! And now I shall take my leave –’

  She stood up, anxious to be gone.

  The Margrave seemed really disappointed. ‘Must you indeed go? Can you not remain and hear more of Bredalbane’s music, played at greater length – those were but extracts –’

  ‘I wish I might. But the preparation for this –’ Sophie tapped her notes – ‘must be put in hand at once.’

  ‘Could you not send a messenger?’

  Wondering why the Margrave was so anxious to keep her, Sophie said, ‘No, your excellency. An affair of this kind, so complicated, deserves to have careful attention. I should give these instructions in person.’

  Really, she wished to tell Simon all about it as quickly as possible.

  ‘Well – if it must be so –’ sighed the Margrave.

  As a red-headed page brought Sophie’s greatcoat and helped her into it, the Margrave turned to his Chapelmaster and said, ‘But a rare spirit such as the dukes’s must not be wasted. We must persuade him to take some part in our future music-making – eh, Chapelmaster?’

  Bredalbane looked quite sick with alarm, but ducked his head over the spinet and stammered, ‘Yes, s-s-s-sir, my l-l-lord –’ making a variety of strange grimaces at his master as he shuffled a few sheets of music together.

  ‘I’ll bid you goodbye, then, excellency,’ said Sophie, and turned to go, receiving, to her surprise, a wink from the red-headed page as he handed her Simon’s Russia-leather driving gloves.

  Sophie never wore gloves for driving; bare fingers, she found, gave more sensitive contact with the reins and the horses’ mouths; so it was not until she reached Bakerloo House and handed the gloves over to Mogg that the chewed apple-core was discovered, lodged in one of the fingers.

  Whe
n Simon returned home, Sophie told him all about the Margrave’s plan.

  ‘Simon, he is such a strange man! I cannot like him! And yet this scheme of his seems truly – truly –’ She hunted for a word.

  ‘Well-intended?’

  ‘Yes. And – and remarkable! He seems most sincere in his love of music – quite unselfish in wishing the work of his Chapelmaster to be heard.’

  ‘What does he look like, this Chapelmaster?’

  At Sophie’s description of the red hair, the kilt, the moustache, Simon shook his head.

  ‘I thought it might be Twite – but no . . .’ He frowned. ‘Just the same, I do not put any trust in that Margrave. Let me see those notes again.’

  They both studied Sophie’s outline of the tunnel programme.

  ‘It seems innocent enough,’ Simon was forced to admit. ‘Yet I wonder –? Could he – for instance – be planning to blow up the tunnel as the king passes through?’

  ‘Oh Simon! What a shocking notion! Surely he could not have such a monstrous scheme in mind?’

  ‘I’d not put it past him. After all, the Georgians blew up Battersea Castle. And it was a near thing with St Paul’s. Yet – now Bonnie Prince Georgie is dead, where would be the advantage? Still,’ Simon said thoughtfully, ‘I shall make sure that a vigilant watch is kept over the tunnel from now until the day of the opening. The gates can be kept locked until the very last moment; that will have the advantage of keeping wolves out of London also.’

  ‘Mercy! Have they come so close?’

  ‘As far as Greenwich and Blackheath. The weather favours them,’ said Simon, looking out at the falling snow, in which few citizens were about. ‘They can slink along by-ways without being observed.’

  Sophie was still anxious about the possibility of the Margrave’s dynamiting the new Thames tunnel while the king and two processions were passing through.

  ‘I suppose a barge – or a ship floating down the river – could hold explosive –?’

  ‘I will see that none are permitted on the day,’ said Simon, making a note. ‘What a head you have, Soph! Mind, they say that the river is likely to freeze if this cold weather keeps up. Ice is forming on the banks already. In which case no ships will be making passage on the river.’

  ‘No, but if it is frozen,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her forehead, ‘people might be able to walk on the ice, over the tunnel –’

  ‘That will have to be forbidden also.’ Simon made another note. ‘Mogg! See that all these notes are taken round to the Comptroller of the King’s Household at dawn tomorrow. I have to go out again at sun-up,’ he told Sophie. ‘We have to try and clear the wolves out of Blackheath and Rotherhithe. Otherwise, as soon as the tunnel is thrown open, they will all come pouring through into London. I shall probably be gone all day.’

  ‘Suppose the Margrave wishes another interview with you?’

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to go again. In any case if I went now, he would be sure to notice the difference, as he has taken such a liking to you! But why should he trouble us again? His plan is being used – he must be content with that.’

  At this moment the Margrave was saying to his trembling Chapelmaster, ‘Come on! Out with it, man! What is making your teeth chatter so?’

  ‘Oh, s-s-s-sir! I kept trying to signal to you while he was here!’

  ‘You looked like a Barbary ape with lockjaw. What was all that about? Why could you not speak up then?’

  ‘S-s-sir! That young fellow – whoever he was – he was not the Duke of Battersea!’

  The Margrave, who had been pacing nervously to and fro, stopped abruptly and stared at his musician. His former pallor had returned.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘W-w-why, s-s-sir – at one time I had the duke lodging with me, as a student, for some months – I could not mistake. That young man was very like him – a young brother, a relation perhaps – but it was not the duke. It was a s-s-substitute.’

  Mr Twite suddenly gave a lugubrious giggle.

  ‘When you think about it,’ he said, ‘it is rather droll . . . is it not?’

  The Margrave did not reply, apart from a ferocious scowl, which made his Chapelmaster cower down, shivering, behind the spinet.

  7

  DIDO WAS ROUSED in the morning by angry shouts. Evidently the Slut’s hope about Mr Twite had not been justified; he was furious to find the basement room unlocked and his daughter sharing the servant’s accommodation.

  ‘Using one of our best quilts, too! How dare you? No breakfast or dinner for you today.’ And he aimed a blow at Is with the bunch of keys he held, which, if it had struck her, would certainly have cracked her skull. But Dido, shocked out of sleep, stumbled to her feet and knocked up his arm.

  ‘Blister it, Pa! Leave the girl alone! Pick on someone your own size!’

  She glared at him, skinny and tousled, looking, though she was not aware of it, very like the cat Figgin, likewise crouched snarling and spitting in a corner.

  He glared back. ‘What in Ticklepenny’s name are you doing down here, daughter? Get upstairs where you belong. And don’t let me catch you down here again. And you,’ he said to Is, ‘make haste, let out the lollpoops and scrub the floor in there, then run out and get us some breakfast.’

  ‘Yessir,’ snuffled the Slut, ducking to avoid another blow.

  ‘I’ll go for the breakfast,’ said Dido. ‘And I’ll sleep where I please, Pa; so you put that in your pipe and blow it! If I choose to sleep with Is, I will. And if you don’t lay off lambasting her, I won’t teach that Dutchman – or I’ll teach him naught but a load o’ wallop, and then you’ll be in trouble with your precious Margrave.’

  Mr Twite’s jaw dropped. He gaped at her in horror.

  ‘A present for the king from His Nabs,’ said Dido. ‘Hah! A likely tale, I don’t think! Find a better one! You must reckon I’m addlepated to swallow that. And if that was one o’ the best quilts, preserve us from the worst! It’s got holes big enough for a buffalo to fall through.’

  Defeated, and speechless for once, Mr Twite retired upstairs.

  Dido crossed the passage and peered into the fusty room where, shock-headed, blear-eyed, and yawning, the last of the lollpoops were taking their departure, while the Slut hurriedly swept about with her birch-broom and sprinkled vinegar.

  ‘Hey!’ whispered a voice in Dido’s ear. ‘Hey, Died o’ Fright! I been a-laying for you! My brother wants a word with ’e.’

  ‘Your brother? Who’s he? And who are you – no, don’t say, don’t say –’ as she recognized his crossed eyes steadily regarding her, ‘I knows who you are. You’re the apple-monger’s boy – Wally. I owe your dad a farden.’

  ‘Right, Died o’ Fright! And never mind the farden. You don’t know my bro’, yet, but he wants to meet ye, wants to ask you summat, and tell you summat. When can you come out and have a barney with him?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Painting a pub sign. The Feathers, in Wapping High Street.’

  ‘I’ll try and come along in ten minutes, tell him.’

  The cross-eyed Wally nodded, and ran off, whistling.

  To the Slut, Dido said, ‘Don’t you fash yourself with what Pa said about breakfast, young ’un. I’ll see you get fed.’

  ‘I ain’t a-worrying,’ the Slut said with scorn. ‘Figgin fetches me breakfast, often as not.’

  ‘Figgin does?’ Dido eyed the scrawny, ill-favoured cat, rubbing and winding against his mistress’s ankles. ‘He don’t look as if he could find breakfast for a ghost. Where does he get it?’

  ‘Down chimbleys!’ said Is, unexpectedly. “’E used to be a chimbley-sweeper’s mog. ’E goes down chimbleys all over Wapping – pubs, folk’s houses, all sorts – and fetches me prog. Mostly it’s fried herrings – stuff what he fancies hisself. Then we shares. Onct in a way he’s brung me real posh grub – from His Nabs’s palace I reckon – chicking, and galangting, and mutting, and pudding. That were prime!’ Her eyes shone at the memo
ry.

  ‘Love a duck! Well – I’ll find summat for you today,’ said Dido. ‘And don’t fret either if Pa or old hag Bloodsucker locks you in – I’ll soon have you unbuckled.’

  She ran upstairs, thinking it’s a mercy someone looks out for the poor little article. Just the same, I’d not reckon on that skinny beast fetching her more than half a herring once in a way – judging from the size of her.

  Upstairs she found Mrs Bloodvessel still snoring and her father happily and dreamily extracting soft, yearning notes from his hoboy. He had two salt-cellars on the bamboo table, and from time to time he would tip all the salt from one vessel into the other, and then gaze at the result with his head on one side.

  ‘Gimme the mish, Pa,’ said Dido. ‘I’ll go and shop for breakfast. I ast the foreign gent last night what he fancies in the morning, he said coffee and toasted cheese.’

  Relieved at having this responsibility taken off his hands, Mr Twite handed over a couple of shillings and instructed his daughter to bring back a gill of milk, bread, and a few slices of ham as well as the coffee and cheese. Dido found a basket and let herself out into the wintry morning.

  ‘You will not do anything foolish, will you, my sarsaparilla?’ Mr Twite called after her. ‘Remember the fate of your friend depends on you.’

  ‘No, Pa,’ she answered shortly, and slammed the door. The hour was still early, and the smoke-blackened buildings and dingy streets of Wapping were silent under the falling snow. A barge hooted mournfully on its way up-river.

  ‘Which way to Wapping High Street, mister?’ said Dido pertly to the black-coated man on guard at the street corner. She wondered if he were the same who had been there last night – his hat was pulled so low, his muffler so high, that only two sharp eyes could be seen. He made no answer but pointed to the right.

  ‘Don’t strain yourself!’ recommended Dido, and turned in the direction he pointed. When she reached the end of the street, he whistled shrilly on his fingers. She saw another black-coated man turn to watch her from the next corner.